Life: Death, Destruction, Hatred
by JiaPryor
Summary: JONAS; After the incidental death of his father, Nick Jonas and his family are mutual on the feeling that it is Nick's fault. In Nick's perspective, see how he deals with it.


Life is complicated. It's a fiery passion that overtakes your mind, your mentality, your emotions, your physical being. It pits you against your loved ones. It brings you closer with your foes. It turns you around so that right is wrong and wrong is right- but only in your perspective. In everyone else's view, you're fucked up. You're the psychotic in the world. You've screwed yourself. And life was hard on you. It took its toll and just ruined you. You've become nothing more than an insignificant being in the massive universe filled with various types of life.

Life is wonderful. It's blissful. You can enjoy all of the wonders it has to offer. Life teaches you responsibility. It shows you how to love. Love in life is the greatest gift life can offer to you. You have the ones you enjoy, the ones that allow you to prosper on earth around you. It gives you more than you could ever imagine. Happiness in life is all you need to survive.

Life brings death, destruction, and hatred.

**Death**

My father's death. I hate to discuss it. He died while driving us to the recording studio. I pressure him into taking us there when he said we should wait until the morning. But me, being so damn persistent, told him I had to have the song recorded. I just had to get it out of my head. Joe and Kevin were prepared to follow, but I told them I didn't need their contributing parts just yet. My father drove steadily, carefully navigating his way to the recording studio. I sat in the back seat, humming the melody of my new song in my head. I plotted out the key of the song, the tempo, rhythm, and everything else needed to make a hit, including the lyrics.

We were at a red light. We were in the middle lane, cars surrounding us on all sides except the front. The car in front of us raced forward at an alarmingly fast speed. My father looked in his rearview mirror frantically. I could see the terror etched onto his face. I widened my eyes and bit back a scream. My father feebly attempted to maneuver our car out of the way of the approaching automobile. None of the cars budged; they stayed rooted to their space in line, not wanting to be trapped in the late evening traffic.

It's my entire fault. Just put the blame on me. I won't deny it.

I felt our car get pushed back into another car. The bumper of our car only hit the car behind us a little bit because that car decided to back up at the opportune time. I was grateful for that miniscule benediction, but a malediction even larger would consume the goodness of the blessing. My father took the most out of the crash. The hood of our car was crumpled and shoved in so far, it was like I could reach out and touch it. The windshield was completely shattered. Tiny pieces littered the floor of the car along with the passenger seat and my father's lap.

I scraped my way to the front of the car, worried for my father's condition. I screamed agonizingly before I regained my breath. He had a large shard of glass in his eye; it seemed to be lodged in very deep. Another substantially bigger piece of glass stuck through his chest. It shone brilliantly as the dome light of our car shined. I gripped my cell phone tightly before calling 9-1-1. I pressed to fingers to my father's gory neck, checking for vitality of him. A slow, rhythmic beating brought a thin smile to my face. He was alive. I wasn't going to lose him. I just couldn't stand to lose my father... not this way.

I leaned back against the mutilated seat in the back of the car. I flexed my wrists as I noticed it hurt extremely badly if I tried to move my right wrist. I attempted again, and hollered out because of the pain. Dad's in much worse pain, I thought to myself. My chest hurt and I forgot that I didn't have my seatbelt on. I vaguely remembered slamming into the back of my father's seat then being propelled backwards from the force of the hit originating opposite from me. I was grateful that the car hadn't been shoved back into my legs. I steadied my breathing, waiting to be of assistance to my father when he woke up.

But the thing was, he didn't. He didn't moan, or shift in his position. I fumbled with my fingers, uncomfortable with relying on my left hand to get things done, and reached up to his neck. There was no pulse. I ran my fingers all over his neck wanting so badly to feel the beating of his heart. Nothing came.

I sobbed profusely, already mourning over my father's death. It was my entire fault. I made him go. I refused to sit in the front, so I could 'gather my thoughts' and record faster. I was responsible for my father's death.

But like life is the joyous thing it really is, it teaches me responsibility. Wrong lesson at the wrong time.

**Destruction**

Several months after my father's not-so-tragic death, I picked up a guitar. After the accident, I was taken to a hospital where they declared I had a sprained wrist. I quarreled with them expressing that it was fine, until they told me my father would have wanted me to get better. That brought tears to my eyes. I cursed out the staff in the room telling them that they didn't know my father. They didn't know me. They knew absolutely nothing about my family and me.

I didn't understand why still offered me help. Psychologist assistance. I was perfectly fine aside from watching my father get impaled with shards of glass large enough to make cups out of. I was still trying to accept my father's death. I didn't tell them that I felt responsible for it, which I was. They would have diagnosed me as depressed and that would have sent everybody skyrocketing up my ass trying to please me and make sure I didn't kill myself. And even if I did attempt to kill myself, I knew to do it discreetly. I knew razor cutting and overdosing weren't appropriate ways to die. You didn't want to suffer, but you would leave something behind. I'd allow my family to feel agonizingly responsible for my death as I did with my father's. I wanted them to feel like they could have helped me get over it in some shape or form.

In life, we are always responsible for something that doesn't belong to us. Always responsibility. You want whatever you're responsible for to grow up and be prosperous, and if it dies, you're responsible for its death. It's a vicious cycle that everybody endures whether they want to or not.

My mother rushed into the hospital room I was occupying with Joe and Kevin silently following behind her and enveloped me in a hug. It seemed like she was almost afraid to let go. She cupped my face, kissing me repeatedly. Once my mother was done, they all stared at me with blank, emotionless faces.

She asked me where my father was. "The morgue," I replied back sullenly. She questioned me further about what I was implying. I told her that he died while waiting on the ambulance. I elucidated to her that glass from the window shield found its way into his heart and eye. My mother told me to stop talking. I ignored her and continued to rant on about the traumatic ordeal for me. She finally screamed at me to shut up. I grabbed my head in a fruitless attempt to make my headache go away. My mother's sobs continued on. Joe and Kevin turned to me and glared. Their disapproving gazes spoke to me. Why couldn't you just wait until morning?

**One Month Later from Paul's Death: **

Most people don't have to experience the remainder of their family falling apart. They don't have to witness the facade everybody puts on; everything in this household is a lie. A small piece of my sanity had been taken along with my father's corpse to the morgue. This shit we had to go through as a "family" meant absolutely nothing to all of us. We were fucked up, twisted. Joe and Kevin brought hell, and I had to go through it. Why couldn't I just wait until morning? That was the question that constantly went through my head, day and night; it never left. Why didn't I? Because I was a spoiled brat. Fame destroyed us, me especially. I won't rant on about how I became this pre Madonna guy and turned into a little ass wipe to everybody else. There are no details, just the egregarious truth.

**Two Days subsequent to Paul's Death:**

When we arrived home, after my two day stay at the hospital, mom almost shut my hand in the door. I'd like to pass it off as an accident, but that wasn't the case. She was deliberately trying to hurt me. To retaliate against the pain she's withheld for her dead husband. And she knew that I was the cause. So I had to endure pain to put my mother out of her misery. An eye for an eye. My death for my father's death. A tooth for a fucking tooth. And all of this goes on for days, the days transitioning into weeks, and the weeks shifting into months. Everything was so unhurried; my life was purposely drawn out so that I'd suffer. Unbelievable, but at the same time, believable.

My mother shut herself in her room and didn't come out for days. At first, I was worried, concerned for my mother. She couldn't stay shacked up in the house. I made an attempt to enter her room, but was quickly cursed and screamed out for being in there. Then I saw Joe followed by Kevin go into my mother's room and shut the door. I never did see them come out.

She blamed me for my father's death. It was certified. My brother's resented me because I had taken one of their parental figures away from them forever. They all failed to realize the immense amount of guilt they had placed on me. I wanted my father back. I didn't want to watch him die. I didn't want to see those vast shards of glass jammed into his flesh. I didn't want to have the guilt of my father's death constantly on my mind. I wanted none of it.

Our family was destroyed, and I was the main source of destruction.

**Hatred**

"I hate you," I whispered into the mirror. It's been half a year since my father's death and nothing has changed except their growing resentment for me. I gazed into the mirror. My skin was pallid, and I had lost an immense amount of weight. It was more than I could have afforded to lose. Everybody hated me. I hated myself. My clothes hung loosely on my thin body frame. My curls had grown out again; I had yet to get it cut, but I didn't care. Nobody wanted a popstar who had killed his father. Nobody wanted to be around a murderer.

I was alone every minute of the day. I felt neglected, abandoned. Every time I would see a person, my chest would tighten. I wanted to be confronted by someone. I craved for the attention. You don't know what you got 'til it's gone. I didn't realize how ungrateful I was of my father and family, until it was snatched from me by Satan. He stole my father. He stole my brothers. He stole my mother. He stole the world from me. I'll kill Satan, if that's even possible, for destroying my life. Even if that means going to hell.

I knew I belonged there anyway. After all the pandemonium and destruction I caused, heaven was no place for me.

My world is flipped. It did a complete one eighty. Everything I do is wrong, so why live life being a screw up? The truth was, I wasn't. I was through, forever.

_Dear Denise, Joseph, and Paul Kevin II, _

_I'm not a child anymore. I'm seventeen and almost an adult now. You basically disowned me that day when we found out about dad's death. I'm sorry for that. I didn't want to kill our main source of strength in the family even though we barely uphold the image of "family" nowadays. _

_Denise, you hated me for killing your husband. But don't you realize that he was my father as well? I missed him so much. I didn't mean for him to be the one to get hit. If I could have switched places, I would have. I feel absolutely horrible about everything. I just wanted you to be there for comfort, but you never showed up. I had to deal with the pain myself. I'm not sorry that I don't have anything else to say to you. I just want to let you know that you hurt me so much._

_Joseph, what happened to forgive and forget? That's the motto you constantly preached. I know our father's death wasn't hard to forget, but I honestly didn't mean to get him killed. I know it's still my fault, and that nothing I say will bring him back, but I just wanted to be forgiven. And I thought you would be the one to do it. But I was wrong. I made the mistake of having too much faith that you would do the right thing. But what can I say, we're only human. I know you probably don't want me for a brother, but I want you to know that I loved you. I did, but now I can't bring myself to say those three simple words. Our bond was destroyed. It left six months ago when Dad died. _

_Paul Kevin II, I'm so sorry for everything. I had to force you to fix the family, even though we were beyond repair. All because of me. I made you grow up way too soon just because of our father's death. I didn't mean to. I just wanted to keep our career going. I know you and Joe and Mom hate me, but I don't hate you. I hate what I did. What I've become. I'm nothing anymore, except a human life. I have no purpose, and no one wants to be around me. No one wants to be around a slaughterer. I gave myself the title after Dad's death. I was our family's grim reaper. I'm sorry I've destroyed everything in your life._

_I'm leaving for good. I won't be a burden anymore. I'm sorry; I truly am, for ruining your lives. My friends, the ones who I have newly acquainted, have helped me out with this decision. I know neither one you would approve of these people, but they let me confess all of my problems to them. They helped me deal with the past and pain, even if it was the wrong way. Goodbye__. __Broken hearts and last goodbyes__… Do you recognize that? The song is Sorry. One of my favorites. That line expresses how I feel. My heart is broken, and yours is broken. This is my last goodbye. _

_-Nicholas Jerry  
_  
I took the needle and lighter. I brought the lighter up to the metallic spoon and lit the black tar. It gradually became a clear liquid. I took the syringe and drew the drug into the needle. I inserted the sharp object into my neck and waited for it to do its work.

Overdosing is a bad thing, but when you're on a high, you feel absolutely nothing. You're free from the world, and all of your worries. You don't realize that you've killed yourself because you just pass out and then sleep washes over you. The catch is, you never wake up.

I've gone to kill Satan. I've lost my sanity, my family, and myself. I have nothing else to lose.


End file.
